


All Is Bright

by wingedspirit



Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge (Good Omens), 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), M/M, The South Downs Cottage, Unrepentant Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21749638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedspirit/pseuds/wingedspirit
Summary: A quiet night in a cottage in the South Downs.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Winter 2019 Prompts [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560823
Comments: 15
Kudos: 142





	All Is Bright

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [drawlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drawlight)’s [advent calendar prompt list](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/188869931294/aziraphale-crowley-for-half-an-hour-youve-been) (day 10, gold & silver).

It’s all still so new.

They’d had dinner and then retired to the snug, Aziraphale with a small stack of books, Crowley already yawning so widely it almost looked like he would be truly capable of unhinging his jaw.

Aziraphale had tried, as he ensconced himself in the armchair, to point out to Crowley that they had a bed upstairs that would surely be a much more comfortable place for him to fall asleep; but the demon had dropped himself onto the sofa, pulled out his phone and started poking at it, claiming he was fine, and not very sleepy at all.

Aziraphale had understood, of course, what Crowley wasn’t saying. It’s all still so new; he, too, is still loath to leave Crowley’s side for longer than a few moments. And so he’d let it go.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been, how many hours he’s spent absorbed in his book; but he pauses, and looks up, and his breath catches.

Crowley is sprawled gracelessly on the sofa, fast asleep. He’s snoring faintly; a few locks of hair have escaped his braid and are plastered to the corner of his open mouth. One of his long legs is flung over the back of the sofa, the other bent at the knee, foot touching the floor, keeping him precariously balanced so he doesn’t fall off the sofa entirely.

His phone is nowhere to be seen, probably buried somewhere in the cushions; one of his arms is behind his head, the other clutching a tartan throw to his chest in a way Aziraphale knows he will absolutely deny having done, once he wakes.

The lights they hung in the trees outside a few days ago are shining in from the window, limning him in soft silver; the golden glow from the fireplace is catching in his hair, on his cheekbones, on the freckled shoulder bared by his loose, wide-necked shirt.

He is the most beautiful thing Aziraphale has ever seen.

Aziraphale doesn’t know how long he stays like that, book falling from his hands, looking, looking, looking, taking in every detail. All the love he’d been too afraid to let himself feel for so long is pouring out of him in endless waves, and he can feel Crowley echoing it, returning it a hundredfold, even in his sleep.

They’ve saved the world together, and yet, Aziraphale thinks, if it were destroyed right now he would not care, as long as he could stay like this, be with Crowley forever. He understands, now, Crowley’s persistent, desperate plea for them to run away together.

Eventually, having looked his fill, he stands, and goes to Crowley.

He means to do nothing more than tuck Crowley’s hair back behind his ear, and perhaps drape another throw over him so he won’t get cold; but he can’t help but linger, can’t help but gently run a thumb over a sharp cheekbone.

Crowley mutters something indistinct and pushes into the touch, still deeply asleep, his hand letting go of the throw and coming up to clutch at Aziraphale’s arm instead. And Aziraphale could easily disentangle himself, get back to his armchair and his books, but…

There is nobody watching anymore. Nobody to say what he should and shouldn’t do. Nobody to count miracles and deem them frivolous.

One miracle to extend the sofa, front and back, into something more closely resembling a large, comfortable bed. One miracle to change from his day clothes into his favourite pair of tartan pyjamas. One miracle for a soft pillow under Crowley’s head, one more for a matching pillow beside the first. One miracle to enlarge the tartan throw and drape it over them both, as he lies down and pulls Crowley close.

And the truest miracle of all — his love warm and safe in his arms, as he, too, slowly drifts off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I yell about Good Omens a lot on my [Tumblr](https://wingedspirit.tumblr.com/).


End file.
